She rolled the miniature balsam fir in her palm and, biting her lip, looked up at him. “You are aphenomenalartist. And um... no. More like Culture Club?”
“Boy George?” he asked, unable to stop the laugh rising in his chest. Fate was such a funny thing.
Hurt flickered across her features.
“No, Fern—” Gently, he plucked the tree from her hand and placed it back on the shelf. “I fucking love Boy George.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to put on ‘Karma Chameleon,’ right now, and we’re going to go eat and talk about our other guilty pleasures. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” she agreed with a twinkle of laughter that had him beaming.
And she came through, telling him all about her not-so-guilty pleasures and making him admit his. She had no trouble discussing her interest in why-choose, sentient object, and monster romances—things hedidn’t realize existed. She had favorite audiobook narrators, favorite artists, favorite authors; he thought it was great. But the way she spoke of these narrators, specifically, sparked a wild sort of jealousy in his chest, one he’d never admit to because it was dumb. They were actors and actresses who read fiction. He was a man… who could turn into a goddamn bear… sitting right in front of her. He was pretty fucking magical himself.
Elliott admitted to hanging out naked when no one was around, and confessed he listened to dough-kneading videos as ASMR to fall asleep. She said that was cute, but not embarrassing enough to count.
She spread compliments thickly over all his art displayed around the house. Through her mix of raining praise on his meager accomplishments and the self-deprecating remarks she made about her own talents, he got the distinct impression she didn’t consider herself an artist even though she was clearly a fine one.
“Wanna learn to throw?” Elliott asked as they dropped their dishes in the sink, hoping the experience would help her realize how talented she was. Even though he missed her pointy nails, he was impressed she’d thought to cut them, and looked forward to bringing her into his world even more.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Fern said, snagging one final olive from the otherwise empty tray and popping it into her mouth. Glistening oil lingered on her lower lip, but before he could swipe it with his thumb, her tongue darted out to lick it.
“Come on, sugar. Let’s go.”
15
Elliott ghosts Fern.
ElliotttaughtFerntowedge and center the clay, then he threw a sample bowl while she observed. When he took his foot off the pedal and his piece slowed to a stop, he bumped her thigh with his elbow and looked up. “Ready to try?”
With a happy hop, Fern nodded and sat at his second wheel. She wet her hands in the rinse bowl, poised them in the air over her lump of clay, and looked over at the station he’d just vacated.
“Ever seen the movieGhost?” he asked from behind her.
Dropping her head back, she looked up with twitching lips. “Yeah.”
“I’m going to ghost you,” Elliott said, aiming for smoothness. But when he took his seat behind her and scooted in close, the other implication of his words tugged his lips down. “The, uh, movie way. Not the disappear-and-ignore-you way.”
Her wet hand landed on his knee as light laughter flowed from her lips, sending happiness rippling through him. He laid a hand on hers, and with his other, grasped her thigh.
Softly, like she was fighting fear, Fern asked, “Does that mean you’re done running away from me, Elliott Fitzpatrick?”
“I think I might be,” he rumbled.
“Good. Because I can’t keep doing this in fits and starts. It’s too stressful.”She relaxed, her back pressing fleetingly against his chest before she sprang forward again and said, “Teach me before we get distracted.”
Laughing, he obliged, ready to “get distracted” with her, but even more thrilled to share his pottery.
After she got the hang of the wheel, he pulled back to watch her work.
“Noa explained some stuff yesterday,” Fern blurted.
“Oh, did she?” His thighs tensed around hers, and she squirmed, her braids brushing his shirt. “What about? Flowers? Haircuts? Something more exciting?”
“You alreadyknow?” She jabbed his knee with a clay-coated finger, leaving a circular spot in her wake.
Chuckling, he slid an arm around her waist and leaned in to rest his chin on her shoulder. “I asked her to explain some things.”
